


inammorati

by spills



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Making Up, because ghosting ur husband happens, estranged husbands, hanahaki - mentioned, hanahaki is now a somatic disorder, minor atsusuna, tfw u were gonna h8 bone but you're!! still both in love, their wedding as a back drop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:35:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27835372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spills/pseuds/spills
Summary: "I was probably still in love with you last year."-The main function of the Lovers within the play is to be in love; and in doing so, they come upon obstacles that keep them from pursuing their relationship.
Relationships: Komori Motoya/Miya Osamu
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	inammorati

**Author's Note:**

> honestly this fic was supposed to be way more hurt and a lot of like. anger!! but then as i kept writing, i was just struck with them not?? wanting to be angry. want understanding and peace so this happened. it's very unfortunate. on that note: don't ghost the people you love! because they probably care about you too. it's hard, but sometimes the communication is worth it! and if not, you get closure at least.

"I was probably still in love with you last year," the other man's tone is nostalgic. 

Baby blue eyes that have their gaze directed elsewhere from his face, smile on Motoya's face amused, wistful - if Osamu's pushing it, seeing things that aren’t there. 

Sex doesn't need to be romantic; the first rule of it should be hunger. 

Desire to have skin and flesh and muscle underneath palms, the entanglement of limbs. There's heat rising up Osamu's head and he can't tell if it's frustration or anger, just knows he's vexed, playing into whatever it is Motoya is trying to weedle out of him. Two can play at this game - fair game because they didn't even manage to part properly because _someone_ forgot to divorce him. 

"Are you saying you don't love me anymore?" Osamu presses light kisses to the inside of Motoya's forearm. He could make a comment of how pathetic it is to be hung up over another for half a year, but apparently not being able to commit to being in that situation for 12 months. He should be asking Motoya what's he doing in his bed, being so pliant, talking about a long gone past of his own making because he simply wouldn't talk about what was wrong - too bad he missed the other man so much it was as if he had a phantom limb. As an answer, what he gets is Motoya’s laughter - an unfamiliar sound that sounds like glass breaking, and of course it’s impossible to wear a mask of civility forever. Motoya sticks his thumb into Osamu’s mouth, pulls at the corner of it and offers a grin in return. 

“You don’t need me to love you,” Motoya whispers like a poorly kept secret, “Not when everyone else loves you,” presses the meat of his thumb against Osamu’s canine. Osamu bites down - hard - remembering how much of a slut for pain Motoya was, and the sound he makes is a hybrid between a groan of pain and a moan of pleasure. 

“Don’t think that’s for you to decide, ‘toya,” Osamu keeps his tone dispassionate, wondering why they are here in the first place. Three hours ago, friends of various circles were getting pissed drunk and sharing old stories, new gossip as Atsumu and Rintarou were _finally_ getting married. Had some old classmates fawning over him asking him if he was well while trying to keep his eyes off of his estranged husband, not asking about him at all. It’s too bad that his eyes were stuck on his husband-not-husband that had broken up with him over the phone, who was laughing across the room with his new brother-in-law. 

Of course it would be Sunarin- now another Miya, that would be able to pull off a stunt this shitty. But thinking about it now, Motoya was Suna’s friend before being Osamu’s husband in the first place. 

Two years of dating followed by marriage, Osamu had believed that they were happy, content with their lives despite his constant business trips across the nation to start up franchises of his store. Motoya had said that he would have supported him, until one day, he didn’t. Said he was leaving his keys to their apartment underneath the doormat. When Osamu returned, Motoya’s things were gone and the key was where he said it would be. If he were a weaker man, it would have left him ruined - too bad he wasn't and he was left with a hollow feeling in his chest. The only thing Motoya had left behind were flowers on the table top. 

If it weren’t for the single daffodil, the forget-me-nots, and daisies, it would have been as if he was never there in the first place. Osamu thought it was a cruel joke at the time, until his twin got drunk one night and told him that Rintarou said that Motoya’s been coughing up flowers **again**. 

Osamu didn’t bother telling Atsumu that he’s been coughing up a flurry of petals too since Motoya’s sudden disappearance. He got the surgery, had the doctor ask him about his registered spouse when he had penned down Atsumu as his emergency contact. Life was funny like that, because he ended up with flowers out his lungs on an idiosyncratic basis. Some months he’d go without a single cough, no petals in sight, then come winter and he swore all the blooms out his throat were trying to _kill_ him. And then he got himself wondering if he was still in love with Motoya. If on the off-chance, Motoya was still in love with him. 

"Does it matter if I need you to love me?" Osamu bites, sinking teeth into the meat of Motoya's shoulder, "What if I just want it?" 

_For you to love me_ is what he leaves unsaid. “ _Fuck-_ ” his darling estranged husband of his hisses, digging his nails into Osamu’s scalp and tugs him away by pulling on his hair. Osamu curses, wants to pin Motoya down and ask him _what the fuck_ , tell him that was uncalled for, but then there’s a gentle palm cradling Osamu’s cheek and Motoya looks at him. It’s a simple look, full of longing and all of a sudden Osamu just wants the other man to speak. 

Talk to him again, like once upon a time. Conversations over the phone where they would laugh and Motoya would have _I love you I love you I love you_ bubble out his throat before they finally hung up because it’d be 2am and Osamu opens shop at eight. 

Maybe Osamu had missed him dearly all the time, maybe missing someone wasn’t enough. Osamu never thought of himself as the sentimental type, but the flowers his husband had left behind were still on the dining table as dried artwork. He could have moved, should have, but didn’t see the point at the time - and sometimes a man just needed a place to live no matter where he goes. Cleaning the place up was a headache and a half though, and Osamu ended up coughing way more anytime he visited the empty one-room apartment. 

After he had gotten over his initial resentment of his husband, he found himself wondering if Motoya was this lonely without him. 

“Don’t you think you’re asking too much of me now?” Motoya whispers softly, presses his forehead gently against Osamu’s and _oh- Toya, you’re such a fucking filthy liar._ Erratic flowers that happen on and off simply because husband dearest can’t decide if he’s finally stopped loving him upon waking up each morning. 

So they both suffer. He wishes he could hate Motoya a little more for putting distance between them without a hint of why and had blocked his number.

Osamu smiles wryly at the other man before wrapping his hand around Motoya’s neck and uses the weight of his body to press the other man against the mattress. Pins him down, thighs spread across his stomach, thumb and index squeezing his throat with a little bit too much force at first, eases off the pressure eventually when tears finally gather at the edge of Motoya’s eyes. 

It’s a pretty sight and between the two of them, Osamu has always been the one that liked luxury a little more. 

“You married me despite knowing that I was greedy,” Osamu hums in response, has Motoya’s wrists pinned over his head with a single hand of his own. If Motoya wanted to break free from this position, he could have done so already. It wasn’t Osamu who had knocked on his un-divorced husband’s door in the dead of the night proclaiming with a cheeky smile: _‘samu, if you wanted my attention, there are better ways, either more direct or subtle than eyefucking. I thought ‘Tsumu was going to kill me!_

Osamu fails to mention that Atsumu did ask him previously if he should hire a hitman to take out Motoya. Said something about it being unfair that in their little competition of happiness, Osamu is already losing on the basis of his _husband_ refusing to talk to him. Atsumu’s a fucking clown, but he cares so much, bright red nose and big ol’ clown shoes that had Osamu laughing and laughing, god he was laughing so fucking hard before he had to remind his shithead of a twin that if Motoya died, then it’d probably be Rin - his boyfriend beloved - that would never talk to him again. 

“Misery should be shared,” was Atsumu’s petulant answer even though both of them knew that Tsumu wouldn’t give up Rintarou for the world. Maybe Motoya’s lucky that he and Rin are so tight, and that Rin’s capable of compartmentalizing each and every one of his relationships. It’s only because of Atsumu that Osamu found out that Motoya had ended up in surgery in the first place.

It fucking sucks, finding out from a third party - especially when marriage vows included _in sickness or in health_. 

**_Talk to me. Talk to me. Talk to me._ **

Osamu wants to beg but doesn’t, because he’s never been good with words. He only understands how to love with offering space and violence and maybe that’s why the two of them aren’t going to get it right the first time around. 

“I did,” and Motoya peers up at him again through wet lashes, licks his lips when he asks, “Too bad it took me a while to wonder if I was enough for you in the first place. Sorry that I didn’t ask the important questions first.” Osamu hates how content that the other man looks, pretending that he isn’t in love. 

“You didn’t tell me,” he hates the accusatory tone in his voice, “Why didn’t you tell me. We could have-” and to that, Motoya simply raises his finger to silence his husband, presses a finger against Osamu’s lips. 

“Do you really want to have a conversation that starts with _hey ‘samu, I’ve just been wondering. Are you in love with me?_ ” a rhetorical that’s followed by the admission of pride, “It’s pathetic, especially when I had proof already. I don’t want to beg for love. I think you can let me keep my dignity at least.” 

“Then why are you here now?” Osamu snarks, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice, “It’s been two years ‘toya. You blocked my number, blocked me on social media, and sometimes I swore you passed me by on the street but couldn’t even be assed to say _hello_. What the fuck. What the actual fuck.” 

He’s trying so hard to not yell, Reason one being they’re staying overnight at the venue of Atsumu and Rin’s wedding - a classy 5-star resort. Reason two being it’s bad manners to start shit at someone else’s wedding. He’d already had his that went off without a hitch with the help of the two newly-weds. Of course it’d be the same pair thinking that they would be able to mend something near irrevocably broken. 

Rin is probably just hopeful. Atsumu who thinks he’s capable of fixing anything as long as he tries hard enough. Why are the people he loves so insufferable - he hates them, right now, this very moment, he wishes he was capable of hating them. It would make his life much easier for one, and he’s wondering why can’t he feel more **betrayed**. 

Osamu wants to argue that if he ever loved him in the first place, then he would have attempted communication instead of just simply _bolting_ . He wants to tell the other man to pick him up, like all those balls he had dug in university, playing on the same team as Tsumu and Rin. He wants to say _screw all the flowers you coughed up for me, because maybe the symptoms would’ve passed if we talked._

Always coming back to conversation. Osamu wonders why can’t he be better at it. 

“I was still in love with you. I didn’t want to fall in love with you again,” and there’s Motoya’s pulse underneath his fingertips, he can feel his husband’s heart beating against his rib cage, a zoo that’s rioting against its confines. Motoya lolls his head to the side, casting his gaze low, the shadow of his lashes stretched along the apple of his cheeks, “it’d be easier if all these feelings could be gone in a single removal,” and again, the other man is leaving some words unsaid. Osamu thinks he could have a good guess but Motoya doesn’t deserve the luxury of him trying to fill in the blanks when he left him with near nothing as a clue to this disappearing act of his. 

Harsh laughter escapes Osamu’s mouth - quiet, low like a threat. He’s above violence in this case, not interested in getting domestic abuse charges filed against him. Not interested in causing pain because the two of them shouldn’t have to be hurting in the first place. He’s just mad that Motoya took something from him that can’t be returned and his lungs are too full or his heart is too empty and Osamu thinks he wants Motoya to return that piece of tenderness that was reserved for him and only him, but even then - tenderness returned would mean nothing if there’s no one to give it to. 

“Any chance you’re going to return my name?” is what Osamu queries instead, pressing butterfly kisses along the shadows of said lashes, placing his hand above Motoya’s hip bone, the dip of his waist still a perfect fit for his palm. 

Motoya takes his other hand, presses a chaste kiss to each fingertip, till he reaches the fourth finger and pops it in his mouth. Osamu can only watch in fascination that feels akin to horror as his first knuckle, second knuckle, disappears between the slip of Motoya’s lips. Eye contact made, Motoya’s eyes glimmering, and he bites down on the base of his ring finger hard. Osamu grits his teeth, curses before Motoya pulls the finger out his mouth, admires the indents of his canines and flicks his gaze back up to his husband. 

“You know that I can still keep it even if the papers are filed right?” his tone isn’t gleeful, teasing or cruel - it’s just a statement of fact and really Osamu should let go - the conversation on the same page but running it’s tracks to a different direction. He’s considering closure and what would it mean for him. 

He’s wondering if it’s worth it. 

“Why would you do that,” he keeps his tone flat, before noticing the glint of bronze inlaid with peridot on Motoya’s own finger. A band of simple design - funny how it slipped his eye till now. 

Motoya finally cracks a smile at that, terribly genuine. 

“I’m never going to forget you, so what’s the point of trying in the first place?”

_Then you shouldn’t have bothered leaving,_ Osamu catches the words around the curl of his tongue before they can leave the cavern of his mouth, allowing the syllables to rattle behind his teeth. Samu wonders if Motoya knows of the bad habits he picked up in his absence, giving the other man a little taste test. 

Presses his lips against Motoya's mouth, slips his tongue between the seams. His husband closes his eyes mid-kiss, drags it long, encourages it to be filthier, rough with nips, and Samu bites down hard enough to split skin. When they break apart, there's a bit of red mixed with the trail of spit at the of Motoya's chin. 

"You picked up smoking?" Motoya swipes away the drool at the edge of his mouth, eyebrows furrowed - finally a look of real concern. Osamu was expecting a quip of some sort, not the other man’s worry. He can't help snorting at the other man's surprise.

"Need a bad habit to keep me occupied,” it’s a joke between the two of them, how Motoya was his favourite distraction, favourite bad habit, “Work can be stressful," his husband turns cheek, bites his bottom lip. 

More blood. Osamu always had suspicions on why Motoya simply left without a word. Pinned it down on a miscommunication of love languages - knowing that he himself thrived off of lingering touches, goodbye kisses and each _good morning_ and _good night_ whispered over the phone, sent by text.

In hindsight, it was pretty sad how months into their marriage, Motoya had more selfies with _his brother_ instead of him. Occasional picture of him third-wheeling Atsumu and Rintarou’s dates. His hand cupping Atsumu’s cheeks, squishing them, the caption underneath the photo reading: _wishing it was @miyasamu_11 here instead [heartbreak emoji]._

_I miss you too_ was all he left underneath the comment section. Business is business and home was where the heart was and he hasn't felt like he's had a home in a while. 

"Despite the flowers," Osamu closes his eyes, thinking about the _forget-me-nots_ and _dandelions_ , the single **_daffodil_ ** declaring unequal love, "there wasn't anyone else." 

"I know," Motoya wraps his arms around the back of Osamu's neck, continues speaking fondly, "my fault for thinking about you more than you thought about me." Osamu would protest but knows that it's probably true. He could blame himself for not making sure the foundations of their marriage was unwavering before burying himself in work months at a time - a relationship was a bridge, a two-way street. 

This very moment, Osamu wonders if the two of them are still a pair of lovers. 

“Don’t-” and Osamu wonders where to start, a heavy exhale as he feels his chest getting heavy, all tangled up in knots and keeps it simple, “pin this all on me.”

Motoya pulls him in closer, a man putting his head into the lion’s jaw when he speaks - Osamu wonders if Motoya knows that his fingers are trembling as he brings their foreheads close together. “I’m not,” there’s no heat in Motoya’s voice, “Did you know that hanahaki is considered a somatic symptom disorder?” and it almost sounds like an apology. 

“This really isn’t the type of conversation that we should be having while attempting to have sex,” Osamu deflects, still not ready to forgive his husband for his sudden disappearance. Motoya blinks at him slowly, before bursting into a peal of giggles. 

“Still insatiable as ever,” his husband teases, smile bright and happy, and it’s ridiculous, this should not be a happy moment, but there’s hope glimmering in Motoya’s eyes, shiny and wet. “Okay, okay,” he says these words, and Osamu remembers how he would slip in sounds just for a reset of the mood, offers more laughter before what escapes Motoya is a singular “Fuck,” that almost sounds like a sob, followed by one: “I missed you.” 

Osamu shakes his head in disbelief as he feels the muscle in his chest unclench, switches up their position a little, just to lay by Motoya’s side. Their fingers find each other, fiddling a little before lacing together. It makes him think of the day when they had called it official - calling each other _boyfriends_ instead of residing in that nebulous space of _boy_ who I call a _friend_ even though we kiss each other more than regular friends do. The two of them are a wreck - all important questions being asked in the comfort of a bed but Osamu has to make it clear, for posterity’s sake. Squeezes Motoya’s hand when he reminds this fool that he’s still too fond of, “I’m not going to forgive you any time soon,” and hates how those words sound like forgiveness, despite the absence of two years. 

Maybe it’s because it has been two years and there’s still only one person he wants, hung up unhealthily on his not-divorced partner despite their separation. He had work to bury himself into - and while he’s been empty like a porcelain vase with nothing to behold, sometimes coping is simply allowing days to pass, doing what you need to do. 

“I’d be worried if you did,” Motoya cracks a crooked smile, “but tell me this first, do you want to break up formally or…” and Motoya’s voice trails off, hesitant but firm. 

“Do you want to?” Osamu shoots back, finds themselves both in a _ask stupid question, get a stupid answer_ type of scenario. Motoya’s already admitted to possibly not letting go of his surname - so really what’s the point? 

“Screw you,” Motoya rolls his eyes, “I think I made my feelings pretty clear. Couldn’t forget you even if I tried. And I’ve already tried.” Osamu pinches Motoya’s side, unable to help himself and Motoya yelps before giving him a sore look. 

“You’re so fucking stupid sometimes,” Osamu states bluntly, “even if we were going to have pre-divorce sex, the mood’s pretty ruined because you’re incapable of being terrible when it counts,” states that in lieu of _I still love you_. 

Motoya huffs at that but doesn’t let go of his hand, “Yeah, okay, I’m pretty fucking stupid, but you married me.” 

_Do I regret it?_ Osamu asks himself but looks at Motoya properly again and _oh_. It really is like night one of calling it official. 

_I’m willing to try as long as you’re willing._

A beat of silence, before it’s Motoya who speaks again.

“Do you still want me though?” the slightest hint of vulnerability, and Osamu sighs. 

“I’d say that my first mistake was letting you out of my sight too often, so. If we get back together, I’m going to be so overbearing and clingy you’re going to hate me. And if I cough up flowers first this time, ya better not turn tail on me,” Osamu tucks Motoya underneath his chin, lets his husband rest his head on his collarbone. 

It’s been so long since they’ve done this - what a surprise that they still slot perfectly into each other. 

“You’re supposed to be angrier than this, ‘Samu,” Motoya says weakly. 

“Shut up,” is Osamu’s response, “I am angry. I just missed you more.” 

“Okay. then you better not forgive me anytime soon.”

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> 2020 is still going strong as a shit fest so I wrote the silver lining that i wanted to see. thank you for reading! I think we all deserve a little bit of hope. And special thanks to Nine and Lia for instilling brainworms and indulging me rambling on the what-ifs. 
> 
> catch me on [ twitter!! ](https://twitter.com/rinrintoya)


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